


Blood On His Sleeve

by PenisPun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cozy fic, Dean - Freeform, Depression, ED - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Sam - Freeform, Self Harm, Smut, Sweater weather, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2216919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenisPun/pseuds/PenisPun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Baby Sammy wanted to perish. Dean just fucked the world and laid awake for hours, counting the stars until he could finally breathe. Both broken. Both secretly fragile. Brothers. The elder one refused to die and that's all the younger boy wanted to do. Two dead bodies that could somehow function a bit. They were in denial of the universe. Brothers. Infatuated with one another."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Trigger warning*  
> Hey fluffy bunny milk monkeys. This is a fic I started writing for my friend. I'll update soon. Enjoy and give me feedback. <3

It was quite nice that Sam's lean frame could still squeeze entirely into the kitchen sink. He'd thought that he knew himself well, but now he wore tears as he spoke of his mother's eyes. The sink faucet spat on him in distaste, only amplifying Sam's drought of passions and ever growing internal presence of worthlessness. His wrists shook violently and he felt as if he were swallowing warm blood by the pint as his shirtless form sobbed quietly down the drain. Oh, how he hated to cry. A crosshatched pattern of scars covered Sam's rippling stomach, some old and pallid, and some appearing more recently inflicted in various shades of pink and red. Exposing the stress of the structure beneath its gilded exterior. Grubby fingernails suddenly met flesh as Sam tried to scrape the shame, the anguish, and the fury that laced his mind and body, far far away. Wet, crimson tracks mapped a complicated path to Sam's navel as he silently screamed for anyone who dared to take a listen. Anyone who chose to hear his pleading whispers, bartering with death. His father, John, was instructed poorly to make sense of adoration in the fires of hell. He didn't plan on making a grand entrance to his home again until sometime never next Tuesday. He just lived whatever little life his semi-mended heart could, accompanied by scotch and a sour attitude, while one of his children, maybe both, were shattering slowly under his nonexistent touch. Baby Sammy wanted to perish. Dean just fucked the world and laid awake for hours, counting the stars until he could finally breathe. Both broken. Both secretly fragile. Brothers. The elder one refused to die and that's all the younger boy wanted to do. Two dead bodies that could somehow function a bit. They were in denial of the universe. Brothers. Infatuated with one another.

One day he would be pretty, existing only as lily-white bones beneath the roses. Finally. Sam had finished throwing up. He relished in the fact that his favorite sweats sagged triumphantly around his hips. It didn't matter that it hurt terribly to lie down on even the most forgiving surfaces. It didn't matter that bruises appeared randomly atop his skin, fresh ones every sunrise. He would be a wisp of his former self in no time. Sam turned this way and that in front of the smudged mirror, stretching his arms above his head to count his protruding ribs. Soft child's skin covered his hated body, torn apart in more places than one. It was rather appalling, and Sam nearly giggled. He was falling apart.  
"Sam! Sammy!" Dean's husky voice broke the silence.  
"Yeah?" Sam hurriedly covered himself with his t shirt.  
"I gotta pee! What are you doing in there? It better not be gross! Oh god it better not be gross!" Yelled Dean, sounding positively horrified.  
"No, no. I'm coming."  
"EW."  
"Not like that, Dean, get away!"  
Laughter could be heard through the door, and Sam blushed, potent warmth spreading up his hallowed cheeks as he squirmed. Dean was so silly. And so, so pretty.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam and his bed on Sundays had an endless love affair. He despised lying there feeling positively nauseated while recollections of his nightmares came crudely to shape. Yet the cottony warmth soaked into his weary tendons and he could finally be at peace for a little while.  
*  
It was nearly eleven when Sam dragged his body from comfort and arose to face the daily horrors soon to unfold. He slowly moved one foot, then the other, stale breath cascading from heavily from his lips with fatigue. Fresh, charcoal bruises shaded his knees and chest, stippling his frighteningly sharp collarbones. Spelling out painful prose upon his body. Lovely. Dean wasn't home. There was no pleasantly musky smell to the bathroom when Sam went in for his morning purge. There were no candy wrappers upon the threshold. Empty home, empty heart. Sam was a broken boy. You can't glue pieces that petite and sharp back together again. They will slip through your fingers and slice your skin apart until you spurt blood upon the window treatments. The crows will fly towards the carnage, and, alas! Perish against the unforgiving glass. And you will be alone once more. Sam was losing his mind. It happened all the time, wall clock marking yet another 11:30 episode of panic. Where was Dean? Damn it, Sam needed him in more ways than one. To hold him against his chest while he sobbed. To kiss his bruises away. God he was dizzy. And hot. For Dean.


End file.
